Photo by author
It was time to bid her ‘farewell’. She walked away until only their fingertips touched, the image of her sister slowly fading, until the mists that separate them grow too thick and heavy with opacity to see.
Memories of playful dance and laughter lingered in whispers from the gentle breeze that greeted her. She smiled now at how their differences entwined and knitted together to create an evergreen blanket of unity. How magnificent it was, this blanket, this unity, this brief but intense ceremony of coming together, only to say ‘farewell’.
Now she sighed, and a little rain fell; then she sighed again, and a breeze shifted fallen leaves. She ran her fingertips along branches, and with her Midas touch, leaves turned to gold of varying tones. In an autumn leaf, we rethink the meaning of gold – precious metal, a state, a personality, an identity? For a leaf - an end of life?
Her’s was the earthiest of scents that lingered, pungent, grounding. In woodlands, fungi blossomed after restful summer slumber; a different sun poured through branches now. It spilled its filter of autumn hues on the fruits that have followed bloom, illuminating the ambers, rich burgundies, and coppers.
“Maybe we are all suns, waiting for open arms to clothe us in their embrace?”
Photo by author
She basked in this new sun … ‘her’ sun, and life stirred within her. She was the child of harvest after all. She pondered whether the sun shines down on us, or do we draw the warmth towards us? Maybe we are all suns, waiting for open arms to clothe us in their embrace? Perception, perspective - they are funny things…
…
the gust of wind that plays with your hair – where did it come from? And who felt it first? How many soft cheeks
did the evening breeze
kiss
before it swept by
to dry
the teardrop on yours?
The measured warmth tempered the growing chill and she continued forward, wading through fallen sleeping foliage and shiny conkers. She doesn’t see leaves … not really … only ‘this’ leaf, and ‘that’ leaf, and the skeleton leaf, exuding beauty from its fragility; then there is the majestic Sycamore, shades of copper and vanilla tracing each curl as it owns its dignity, resting upon damp ground, balanced on the tips of dewy blades of grass. No, there are no ‘leaves’, only each leaf.
Photo by author
Once rigid branches now bent and curved, submitted to their autumn harvest of apples, plums, pears… ‘I will not go hungry’, she mused, and laughter filled the freshness of the air as fruity juices ran down the sides of her mouth with each delicious bite
On she walked, on the moors now; a mist enveloped her and she breathed it in, its damp coolness cleansing her; she inhaled its grassy scent. Did you know you can smell mist?
She embraced all this with the power of now, knowing what was to come, when her fingertips will once again touch another’s, when she will feel the joy of union and then again, a fond farewell, and her fingers will stroke the arm of her other sister until too, only their fingertips will kiss and she will say,
‘Farewell Winter, go cast your soporific spell upon the earth. It’s time for me to sleep now; and by the way, Summer sent her love.
And Winter, having woken and enjoyed the brief encounter, will utter,
‘Farewell Autumn, my earthy Carpo, dear sister of mine, I will help you sleep and weave magical dreams to accompany your slumbers.’
‘Yes’ she thought, when the time comes she will surrender, with the leaves, fruits, dwindling warmth …
She will surrender because she ‘is’ the leaf, the fruit, the toadstool, the cooler breeze…
She is the keeper of seeds, the custodian of abundance. But she cannot ‘be’ her destiny unless she surrenders. She is Autumn.
Winter comes for a purpose, but that, my lovely friends, is another story …
Photo by author